I want to be very careful what I write here. Because horses are very sensitive and high strung creatures. If you write about them the wrong way they come down with the bots. So I must be careful with my words. Journalists, on the other hand, don't give a hoot in Hades what you write about them. They enjoy the give and take of a good verbal tussle. At least I hope they do. Because I want to tell you about a particular reporter who loves horses. All horses. Black ones. Clydesdales. Mustangs. Ponies. Cobs. Appaloosa. Studs and mares and yearlings. But other than horses Sarah Maslin Nir doesn't exhibit extravagant love for much else. Not having met her, and only having read some of her stuff, I'd guess she puts all her passion into her reporting. Which leaves her a little stunted in her dealings with editors, publishers, the general public, and encyclopedia salespeople. With her family, I don't know. I won't guess. Family dynamics are a subject that would stump Einstein and Socrates alike. In my family . . . well, in my family no one likes pickled herring but me. And that has caused a lot of heartache. I'll tell you about it if you'll meet me at the Swedish Corner Smorgasbord in Torrance, CA, next Shichigosan weekend. But we know that Ms Nir dotes on horses. Because the very last line of her New York Times official biography reads: "She loves horses."
Any woman who loves horses can't be all bad. Not that I'm saying she's bad in any way. I'm just riffing on an old Hollywood quote about W.C. Fields and . . . oh well, I'm drifting way off base here. In fact this whole piece has gotten away from me. Pickled herring and Socrates, indeed! I've failed in my intention to present an interesting piece of writing about Sarah Maslin Nir or horses or anything else. I just hope the horses won't take my blather too much to heart. They are beautiful, noble creatures who ought to rule over us as the Houyhnhnm once did.
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